About 13 years ago I started seriously trying to write a horror fiction novel in the style of Stephen King modern day horror atmosphere mixed with Howard Phillips Lovecraft eldritch monsters engaged in a cosmic conspiracy against Earth. The end result was a 606-page (originally 475) novel The Nightmare of Aarontown that promptly failed to gain any interest from publishers or literary agents over the on-and-off efforts to sell it for eight years.
Undaunted by that failure and other failures of my short fiction being published until nine years after finishing my first sci-fi piece "Announcing the Forthcoming Death of a Friend," I wrote my first space opera sci-fi story (intended as part one of five) Goram - The First World: The Prophecy of Kolab. But alas after it failed equally as the first book, I then stubbornly wrote two sequels to that sci-fi story stalling with a third sequel when I needed to change some events in the third volume final chapters and never getting to the concluding volume even as a rough draft. I was also writing more short fiction each year after 2000, but again until 2009 no one was interested in publishing any of them.
More books followed some years between 2004 and 2011, three of those I've since self-published (Worldjumpers, A Legacy of Blood and The Circle of Light) but the first effort sold only five copies since August, the second one Kindle copy since December and the last one zero copies to date. CreateSpace recently paid me my royalties for the past almost eleven months - $17.47. Thanks to all those who bought my books in whatever format, even though writing ain't paying the bills. I instituted another book giveaway (10 copies of The Circle of Light) but considering the embarrassing errors in my second book (since corrected but too late) having give out 20 copies, perhaps my failures as a book marketer and proofreading editor are definite signs I'm no potential bestselling author. Being the artist, or the talent (that's being overly generous, since I must have none), is not enough to succeed in the book market. I'm no networker or ass-kisser in terms of building the career, which means I cannot succeed on the strength of my written words alone as could a genius author. My dream has been stillborn since 2000 and despite persevering for years, I'm at the end of my rope. I love writing but can't make any progress toward even the slightly known author with a cult following. I probably will never qualify for posthumous fame like some authors gain after death. Two copies of my newest book have been requested in the space of one week, probably because of the failure my second book was in quality and most folks who like comic books won't read some new non-illustrated comic book adventure - those readers would rather stick with Wild Cards or the major league comic company's (DC and Marvel) paperback prose stories about their favorite illustrated funny page heroes.
I may suspend all writing activities after sensing my newest effort to break into non-self publishing with a horror story (I started in 2001 and put aside finishing until 2009) called Claws of T'birsk would not impress Dark Moon Press or perhaps any other small to large publisher looking for the next Twilight. My book is far from a sure thing and I don't know how to sell it to the publishing gatekeepers always rejecting my work in the past.
I was considering self-publishing my otherworlds fantasy novel Sister Helena of the Sword sometime this year, but what's the point - no novel I write sells well.
I thought my careers dream had a chance because, unlike some athlete's dream that fails with the body getting old, writing doesn't have to end when one becomes older in years. But I guess my late parents and everyone else I know that thought I was insane believeng I could write fiction for a living - they were all correct, and I was wrong.
Undaunted by that failure and other failures of my short fiction being published until nine years after finishing my first sci-fi piece "Announcing the Forthcoming Death of a Friend," I wrote my first space opera sci-fi story (intended as part one of five) Goram - The First World: The Prophecy of Kolab. But alas after it failed equally as the first book, I then stubbornly wrote two sequels to that sci-fi story stalling with a third sequel when I needed to change some events in the third volume final chapters and never getting to the concluding volume even as a rough draft. I was also writing more short fiction each year after 2000, but again until 2009 no one was interested in publishing any of them.
More books followed some years between 2004 and 2011, three of those I've since self-published (Worldjumpers, A Legacy of Blood and The Circle of Light) but the first effort sold only five copies since August, the second one Kindle copy since December and the last one zero copies to date. CreateSpace recently paid me my royalties for the past almost eleven months - $17.47. Thanks to all those who bought my books in whatever format, even though writing ain't paying the bills. I instituted another book giveaway (10 copies of The Circle of Light) but considering the embarrassing errors in my second book (since corrected but too late) having give out 20 copies, perhaps my failures as a book marketer and proofreading editor are definite signs I'm no potential bestselling author. Being the artist, or the talent (that's being overly generous, since I must have none), is not enough to succeed in the book market. I'm no networker or ass-kisser in terms of building the career, which means I cannot succeed on the strength of my written words alone as could a genius author. My dream has been stillborn since 2000 and despite persevering for years, I'm at the end of my rope. I love writing but can't make any progress toward even the slightly known author with a cult following. I probably will never qualify for posthumous fame like some authors gain after death. Two copies of my newest book have been requested in the space of one week, probably because of the failure my second book was in quality and most folks who like comic books won't read some new non-illustrated comic book adventure - those readers would rather stick with Wild Cards or the major league comic company's (DC and Marvel) paperback prose stories about their favorite illustrated funny page heroes.
I may suspend all writing activities after sensing my newest effort to break into non-self publishing with a horror story (I started in 2001 and put aside finishing until 2009) called Claws of T'birsk would not impress Dark Moon Press or perhaps any other small to large publisher looking for the next Twilight. My book is far from a sure thing and I don't know how to sell it to the publishing gatekeepers always rejecting my work in the past.
I was considering self-publishing my otherworlds fantasy novel Sister Helena of the Sword sometime this year, but what's the point - no novel I write sells well.
I thought my careers dream had a chance because, unlike some athlete's dream that fails with the body getting old, writing doesn't have to end when one becomes older in years. But I guess my late parents and everyone else I know that thought I was insane believeng I could write fiction for a living - they were all correct, and I was wrong.